"You have an atmosphere here," Natasha commented as she crossed the threshold. Her gaze, professional but laced with feigned curiosity, scanned the room. "It has a kind of creative chaos. I'd even say it has character."
She was, of course, shamelessly putting on an act. The apartment wasn't just disorderly; it was the absolute pinnacle of chaos. A graveyard of Chinese takeout containers, the skeletons of disassembled gadgets, and an even layer of dust on everything that hadn't been touched in days. Ever since I'd firmly established myself at Blade's base, this place had become a written-off asset. A compromised safe house that probably only the laziest dog in the neighborhood didn't know about.
"Thanks. I prefer to call it a 'genius habitat,'" I answered with a smile, shrugging as I made my first move in this invisible intellectual duel.
"Genius?" She picked up on my game with interest, her gaze casually catching on the outlet where my power supply was plugged in. "May I..."
"Make yourself at home. Tea?"
"I wouldn't refuse, but first... Oh yes, it turned on!" Natasha exclaimed joyfully when her smartphone screen, now connected to the charger, lit up with white light. "Excellent, I'll have some while I call a taxi."
Again with this taxi. Sweetheart, your plan is as subtle as the armor on a KV-2. I put the kettle on and returned to my self-presentation while she pretended to be absorbed in her phone.
"Genius not in the sense of a nerdy bookworm who can distinguish Hegelian dialectics from Marxist theory. But in the sense of someone capable of creating non-trivial things from trivial chaos. Like this." I gestured around at my mess, which now played perfectly into my hands, creating the ideal image of an eccentric inventor.
"Sounds too self-confident, but... wait a second." She interrupted me, putting the phone to her ear. "Hello? Your taxi driver dropped me off in the middle of nowhere and just left! What do you mean a complaint was filed against him, too? I had NFC payment set up, but my phone died at the worst possible moment!"
For another few minutes she argued with the "support service operator" with perfectly calibrated pauses and notes of genuine indignation in her voice. An excellent performance designed to convince me of the randomness of her visit. But the finale was predictable.
"What do you mean I'm on the blacklist?! You can't just refuse service, what the hell?!" There it was. Now she was completely and "legally" stuck here. I prudently kept silent about the existence of a dozen other taxi services. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd been promptly "banned" from those, too. Professionals, what can you say.
"That's unfortunate." I shrugged sympathetically, pouring boiling water into mugs. "By the way, what about your bike? I remember you were on it."
"Broke down." Natasha grimaced with annoyance, accepting a mug of bagged tea from my hands. "As they explained to me at the service, the electronics died. Apparently the wiring contacts oxidized or something like that." She took a sip and continued, shifting to a more trusting tone. "Anyway, I'm already late everywhere, and a new taxi... Forget it, I don't even want to think about it. Since we had such a random meeting, tell me about Murdock? You were a client of his firm?"
Here it was. It had begun.
"Mm? Matt Murdock?" I pretended to be surprised. "But what about discussing my genius?"
"Ha ha, very funny." She smiled gently. "But so far, the only genius thing I see is this chaos, and I need a good lawyer right now. I did visit him after our meeting, of course, but another client's opinion interests me just as much. After all, his services aren't cheap, especially by Hell's Kitchen standards..."
"Well, he's honest, meticulous, and very... flexibly minded." I recalled our conversation, choosing words that would sound flattering but not reveal the essence. "He doesn't just know the law, he feels it. He adapts to the client and finds non-standard solutions."
"Excellent, that's exactly what I need." Natasha drawled, her whole demeanor a silent invitation for further questions. I, of course, took the bait.
"What do you need him for, if it's not a secret?"
"Not a secret anymore... In short, black market real estate agents. They squeezed my grandmother out of her apartment. She sued them, but the case is being actively buried because some damn incompetent idiot is defending her interests. I need to change lawyers urgently. I looked into it, and Murdock seemed like the ideal option. And I don't care that he's blind. I think that might even be a plus."
"A plus?"
"Well, yeah. When you have such a serious problem in your own life, you probably find it easier to empathize with other people's problems. Maybe that's where his heightened sense of justice and high moral principles come from."
"Hmm, I never thought about it that way." I honestly admitted, appreciating the elegance of her phrasing.
"But you should. You're supposedly a genius." She giggled charmingly.
"You know, I just realized that I still don't know your name..."
"Natalie. But for friends, just Nat."
"John Thompson." I smiled. "A shame it's not Wick, of course, but it's still a solid surname. And as for my genius, as I said, it's more of a technical, applied nature. To put it simply, I'm an engineer."
"Oh, an engineer? I heard they earn a lot!" Playful notes sounded in her voice. "I immediately picture these serious men in glasses, with brutal stubble and bags under their eyes, smelling of coffee and rosin. And you, you know, don't really fit that image."
"Well, I work for myself." I grinned. "Garage Cooperative LLC, you could say. But don't be fooled. With my talents, I wouldn't just become a lead engineer at, say, Stark Industries. I'd make Stark himself nervously bite his nails. Why be a cog in someone else's machine, even the best one, if you can build your own spaceship?"
"Stark Industries, no more no less... Straight from rags to riches, huh?" She said this in a deliberately incredulous tone, carefully probing my reaction. "Somehow that's too... uh..." She made a vague gesture with her hand, as if searching for the right word.
"Too arrogant?" I readily prompted her.
"Probably. It's just that you talk as if you've already invented something great, but... your name isn't in the same league as Stark, whom you, by your own words, are ready to eclipse."
"Heh, you yourself said I don't fit the image." I leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering my voice. "I'm still too young. Everything's ahead. But... I've already filed a patent for a revolutionary technology. A real game-changer for a whole range of industries. Actually, I hired Murdock to clarify details about this patent."
"Revolutionary technology?" Genuine professional interest flashed in her eyes, skillfully disguised as feminine curiosity. "Something like artificial intelligence that tells the darkest jokes?" She giggled quietly, defusing the atmosphere and pushing me toward openness. A pro, what can you say.
"Ha, I'm only thinking about AI so far. And this... it's just a trifle. Merely lightweight, cheap-to-produce armored fabric capable of easily withstanding pistol shots."
"'Merely'?!" Her amazement, though part of the performance, looked absolutely sincere. "I'm no specialist, of course, but..."
"Exactly. There are simply no analogs on the market. Everything that exists is either impractical, fabulously expensive, or terribly overcomplicated."
"I heard something about Kevlar..."
"Kevlar is a reliable stone axe. And Proteus," I proudly pronounced the name, "is a laser scalpel. It's a conceptually new view of the very philosophy of light protection. And you know what's most interesting?"
"What?" I could literally feel her breathing quicken. She had taken the bait.
"This is only the tip of the iceberg. A small part of my true capabilities!"
"Pfft, come on! Braggart!" She waved it off playfully, but I saw the bait was swallowed.
"No, I'm serious!" I jumped up with feigned enthusiasm. "Wait a couple of minutes. I'll run to the garage right now and bring something that will just blow your mind. This will be the coolest thing you've seen in your life!"
She only nodded in bewilderment, and I left.
In the garage, I demonstratively rattled tools for several minutes, simulating vigorous activity. At some point, I felt it. A short, dry crackle in the air, and all the hairs on my body sharply stood on end from the static charge. The lights flickered for a moment and then came back on. A weak EMP pulse. Natasha was clearing the airwaves, burning out any CIA bugs so that what I showed her would go only to her and her department. Well, well. S.H.I.E.L.D. was my priority anyway, so let her play. I was supposedly a free citizen, and if they decided to come after me, I could definitely stand up for myself now.
Shaking off the illusion, I mentally opened my inventory. The Chimera obediently clothed my body, and I returned to the house, appearing before Natasha in all my pompous, futuristic magnificence.
I saw it. Despite all her professionalism and iron endurance, her eyelid twitched almost imperceptibly. A micro-expression of pure shock, which she extinguished in the same second, returning her face to a mask of light mockery.
"And what's this? One of those costumes that nerds craft for their cosplay gatherings?" She inquired, lazily looking me over.
"First, I prefer the term 'geek,' and second," my voice from the helmet sounded slightly muffled and distorted, "this isn't cosplay. This is a full-fledged combat platform capable of replacing a hundred professional soldiers on the battlefield. Roughly speaking, in this suit I'm a full-fledged superhero. I can easily go toe-to-toe with Spider-Woman, for example."
I was still dissembling, of course. Remembering how easily Shocker had dealt with her, I suspected I could handle her even without stimulators. My build, especially considering the Iron Blood, was far more balanced and lethal.
I took a step toward the kitchen table, towering over the seated Natasha in all my combat magnificence. My NZT-enhanced brain registered everything. I saw how, under the thin fabric of her sweater, her deltoid muscles tensed. I saw how her center of gravity imperceptibly shifted to a more stable position, ready for a lunge or evasion. I noticed a tiny drop of sweat that sparkled on her neck under the lamplight. She was ready for battle, for betrayal on my part, for any development. And still, she continued playing the role of a charming simpleton.
"Sounds too good to be true." Her voice remained light, but I caught steel notes in it. "I may not be a genius, but I'll never believe such a thing can be assembled in an ordinary garage. The power of a hundred soldiers, hah. So you're a kind of Garage Hyperion?"
Instead of answering, I silently raised my hand in its armored glove. A low, barely audible hum emanated from my fingers. I pressed one finger to the tabletop. An ordinary table made of chipboard. I gave a simple mental command. The vibration, beginning at an infrasonic frequency, reached its peak in fractions of a second. There was no roar, no impact. The tabletop simply ceased to exist. It soundlessly turned to dust, into a cloud of fine wood powder that slowly settled on the floor. My mug and Natasha's mug fell to the floor with a dull thud.
"And this is the most primitive attack mode." I shrugged. "There's also defensive, tactical, and body-stimulating modes. But I don't want to demonstrate them in the apartment. I still have to live here, you know."
Her gaze darted from my figure to the cloud of dust at our feet, then to the four table legs standing forlornly, and back to me. The mask of skepticism cracked, and she moved to the next stage of the protocol. Admiration.
"This is... just... wow!" She breathed out, her eyes widening. "God, John, this is the coolest thing I've seen in my life! And I'm, by the way, a fan of both Spider-Woman and Hyperion! Such power... achieved with intelligence alone... I've always admired two categories of people: smart ones and those who back up their words."
Eh, woman, ease up. You're overacting. You got so nervous you skipped a couple of steps in the recruitment manual? Or do you think that I, standing here in this pompous suit, am just basking in my own coolness? Well, not that I'm entirely immune to it, of course, but still, this is too abrupt.
"Well, finally you realize what a handsome devil I am!" My modified voice grumbled. "And you know what's most amusing?"
"Oh no, no, noooo... Again with that phrase... Please tell me you're just joking now?" Understanding where I was going, Natasha groaned theatrically, covering her face with her hands.
"No chance! The most amusing part is that this is only my calling card!" I began pacing circles around the room, actively gesturing, which in full armor looked both utterly comical and grandiose at the same time. Time to raise the stakes to the heavens. "Combat stimulators that increase physical condition and reaction speed several times without a single side effect! A compact energy source, a 'pocket sun,' capable of supplying electricity to all of New York for an entire year! And..."
I fell silent and approached her closely. My voice from inside the helmet dropped almost to a whisper, creating an intimate, conspiratorial atmosphere. This shot was intended personally for her. And the fewer ears that heard it, the better.
"A serum. A formula capable of curing practically everything. Cancer at any stage. Any wounds that don't require limb regeneration. Organ failure... Infertility."
Pause.
There it was. Her mask didn't just crack. It shattered, exposing for a moment something deeply personal and painful. She flinched, took a convulsive, barely noticeable breath, and her emerald eyes lost focus for an instant. I had hit the mark.
Time to end this farce. The twilight outside the window had already thickened into night.
"But we've been sitting too long." My voice again became loud and cheerful, tearing her from her stupor. "I need to attend to my genius affairs, and then get some sleep. And you, it seems to me, shouldn't stay at my place for the night, considering we've only just met."
I carefully but insistently took her by the elbow. She didn't resist, moving as if in a dream. Along the way, I pulled her smartphone from the charger and placed it in her hand, then opened the front door.
"Well, Nat. I hope you enjoyed visiting a modest genius."
"That's an understatement..." She muttered in bewilderment and, without even properly saying goodbye, went out into the street and walked away with quick steps.
I closed the door, drew the curtains, and deactivated the suit, sending it to my inventory. Done. The bait was swallowed. Let her pass the information upward and receive further instructions. If S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't contact me with a serious offer by tomorrow, I'd be deeply disappointed in them. And I'd have to figure things out on my own.
For now, it was worth finding out what was up with Peter. I hadn't heard a peep from him.
In the office, which was drowning in semi-darkness, it smelled of expensive wood, leather, and power. Before that shameful incident which forever changed his essence, Otto Octavius could not have imagined that one day he would come to respect brute force so much. Yes, he admitted it: the gamma irradiation didn't just fuse four titanium manipulators to his body; it rewrote his personality. He had always respected intellect, though he believed that men like Richards had simply been lucky enough to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He respected Norman Osborn's business acumen, though he considered him a rare bastard. But strength? What use was it when humanity had invented a million ways to nullify it?
How wrong he had been. Strength was multifaceted. And the monolithic figure now sitting behind the black wood desk opposite him was living proof. Otto felt this on an instinctual level. Despite his mechanical limbs, capable of crushing concrete, despite his physiology, strengthened after the irradiation, he was no match for this mountain of muscle and indomitable will. Wilson Fisk. The Kingpin. Not only had he outplayed death, but he had also become Otto's new employer.
The scientist was still in a state of shock and awe. How Fisk had pulled off his own "death," how he had held onto the teetering throne of the criminal underworld and, in record time, not only returned but multiplied his former power—all of this evoked involuntary admiration in Octavius. New, far more serious metahumans were on his staff. And projects. Projects that Fisk had entrusted to him personally, Otto Octavius, to oversee, appreciating his genius. He had put him in charge of the entire scientific department of his empire, generously funding the most absurd and ambitious ideas.
"What about Project Resurrection?" The Kingpin's low, rumbling voice tore through the silence as soon as Otto sat down in the chair.
"The ideal candidate for the Rhino has been found." Otto immediately began his report. "Alexei Sytsevich. A former Russian mafia enforcer who screwed up. An incredibly tough guy, a real bull. His physiology should withstand the bio-implant integration and complete fusion with the new armor version."
"Shocker?"
"Primitive vibration technology." Otto dismissively waved his hand. "I could equip all your cannon fodder with these gloves. Though they consume an immeasurable amount of energy. The problem of a compact power source is paramount."
"I don't need everyone. Select only those whose bodies can withstand the recoil. Schultz was a weak meta, and he could handle it." Fisk's tone was even.
"Ah, that's it. That explains everything." Otto thoughtfully scratched his bald head. "Yes, solving the problem of the vibrations' penetrating effect on the wearer's body is extremely problematic..."
"Vulture?"
"A useless, bulky, and impractical initiative!" Octavius grumbled. "It requires colossal resources, and the output is zero. Flight? So what? There are a dozen more elegant and efficient ways to move through the air. Better not to fly at all! Look, Spider-Woman manages perfectly well with her webbing." He grimaced. "I prudently closed that project."
Fisk was silent for some time, his heavy gaze inscrutable. Finally, he nodded shortly.
"Good. What about the Chameleon? Is Beck, the one assigned to you, coping?"
"He prefers to be called Mysterio." Otto grimaced. "And yes, his holograms... they're quite entertaining. They're capable of completely replacing the Chameleon in infiltration and disinformation operations. But Beck himself is an unbearable, arrogant asshole. He's more like a failed theater actor with delusions of grandeur than an engineer."
"The main thing is that he's a useful tool. Control him. Now, to the main point. I sent you data on the Proteus fabric. Can you recreate an analog?"
"Mmm..." Otto hesitated. "In theory, yes. But I'm already running too many projects. And Proteus looks like something that will require months of fundamental research. Besides, we agreed we'd strengthen our rank-and-file fighters with vampirism? I'm in the active phase of virus research right now!"
At this moment, Fisk's impenetrable face cracked for the first time. He grimaced with displeasure.
"Project Vampire is dead. Too many variables, too messy. Shut down everything connected to it. Focus on Proteus. I need this technology."
"I... I'll think about what can be done..."
"No. Not 'you.' 'All of you' will think." After these words, the office door opened, and into the room, mincing finely, entered a balding, short man about fifty. In his round glasses and lab coat, he looked like a living caricature of a scientist. "Phineas Mason. In certain circles, he's known as the Tinkerer. He's your new partner."
"But... I already have one unbalanced psycho with delusions of grandeur to deal with!" Otto exclaimed indignantly, meaning Beck.
"I don't care." Fisk cut him off. In that moment, the air in the office seemed to become dense and heavy. The aura of absolute power emanating from the Kingpin pressed him into the chair. "Within a month, my fighters will be wearing the best protective fabric in the world. That's an order."
Even Otto was affected. All his scientific swagger evaporated under the pressure. He silently bowed his head, then, without saying another word, stood and fearfully left the office. The Tinkerer, trembling with fear, hurried after him.
Left alone, Fisk allowed himself a thin, predatory smile. His power... It was growing. Not just his personal power. His entire empire was becoming stronger. Perhaps he should have organized his fake assassination much earlier. Death was the best tool for business restructuring. And now, his real business was on the rise.
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